in, to the ind
of the earth, an' love ye like a lamb. It's Batty has studied the sex.
Now, wance there was a gyurl--but no; I'll not yet thrust mesilf to
spake o' that. God rist her asy ivermore!"

"Yes," said Franklin sadly, "that is it. That is what my own answer
has been. She tells me that there was once another, who no longer
lives--that no one else--"

Battersleigh's face grew grave in turn. "There's no style of assault
more difficult than that same," said he. "Yet she's young; she must
have been very young. With all respect, it's the nature o' the race o'
women to yield to the livin', breathin' man above the dead an'
honoured."

"I had my hopes," said Franklin, "but they're gone. They've been doing
well at the Halfway House, and I've been doing well here. I've made
more money than I ever thought I should, and I presume I may make still
more. I presume that's all there is--just to make money, and then
more, if you can. Let it go that way. I'll not wear my heart on my
sleeve--not for any woman in the world."

Franklin's jaws set in fashion still more stern than their usual cast,
yet there had come, as Battersleigh did not fail to notice, an older
droop to the corners of his mouth, and a loss of the old brilliance of
the eye.

"Spoken like a man," said Battersleigh, "an' if ye'll stick to that
ye're the more like to win. Nivver chance follyin' too close in a
campaign ag'inst a woman. Parallel an' mine, but don't uncover your
forces. If ye advance, do so by rushes, an' not feelin' o' the way.
But tin to wan, if ye lie still under cover, she'll be sendin' out
skirmishers to see where ye are an' what ye are doin'. Now, ye love
the gyurl, I know, an' so do I, an' so does ivery man that ivver saw
her, for she's the sort min can't help adorin'. But, mind me, kape
away. Don't write to her. Don't make poetry about her--God forbid!
Don't do the act o' serrynadin' in anny way whativver. Make no
complaint--if ye do she'll hate ye, like as not; for when a gyurl has
wronged a man she hates him for it. Merely kape still. Ye've met your
first reverse, an' ye've had your outposts cut up a bit, an' ye think
the ind o' the worrld has come. Now, mind me, ould Batty, who's seen
the lands; only do ye attind to dhrill an' sinthry-go an' commissariat,
till in time ye find your forces in thrim again. By thin luk out fer
heads stickin' up over the hills on the side o' the inimy, who'll be
wonderin' what's goin'